


Spank Bank

by ficlicious



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst and Humor, Artist Steve Rogers, Clint Barton Is An Evil Shit, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Tony Stark, Going to Hell, Masturbation in Shower, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Rule 63, Sexual Tension, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Toni Is A Tease, Tony Is Not Helping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-11-15 10:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11228730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/pseuds/ficlicious
Summary: Steve’s pretty sure he’s going to hell.He’s been a good Catholic boy most of his life. Church on Sunday and special occasions. He prayed for the souls of his men and the men he killed in battle during the war every night, and he made sure not to blame God for the ills in his life while praising him for the good. He’s never demanded, just asked and always thanked. When he thought about it at all, he figured he might have done enough to balance his scales when Judgement Day came and he faced St. Peter.That was all before he met Toni Stark.





	1. Bare Back

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thank you fic for everyone who saw my post on Tumblr about my internet troubles and decided to throw me a desperately needed rope. Or seven.
> 
> Y'all. Just love. So much love. 
> 
> Supposed to be a oneshot but will post in parts because I'm still unstable net-wise and I'm updating things as I can. 
> 
> ❤

Steve’s pretty sure he’s going to hell. 

He’s been a good Catholic boy most of his life. Church on Sunday and special occasions. He prayed for the souls of his men and the men he killed in battle during the war every night, and he made sure not to blame God for the ills in his life while praising him for the good. He’s never demanded, just asked and always thanked. When he thought about it at all, he figured he might have done enough to balance his scales when Judgement Day came and he faced St. Peter. 

That was all before he met Toni Stark. 

He’d like to believe he’d never go so far as to blame the Devil for her presence in his life, but if anyone on this Earth was put here to be a temptation for him, it’s Toni. He knows he’s not supposed to think of women as sexual objects first and people second, but he can’t help it. He recognizes her brilliance, her drive and determination, her achievements as a businesswoman and probably the most important engineer and inventor of the 21st century. But all of that goes out of his head every time she storms by smeared with grease or trailing Chanel in her wake or hauls herself up from the armor bay smelling like ozone and metal and sweat. 

So yeah. He’s going to hell. His only saving grace is that she seems to be completely, blessedly, unaware of his obsession with her, because he knows if she was, she would never want to spend time in his presence again.

It had started innocently enough, with him asking her shyly if she minded he set himself up in a corner of her workshop with a sketchpad and a pencil, that he wanted to improve his life drawing skills and he didn’t know anyone who moved with the same amount of energy she did. By that point he had been babbling like a fourteen year old with a crush, so he was just grateful she seemed more amused than annoyed and said,  _ sure, Cap.  _

But as innocent as it started, it doesn't stay that way for long. Somewhere along the way, his sketches of her working on the armor or leaning over her workbench to peer intently at delicate work, his careful linework of her hands, the curve of her shoulder, the faraway look she gets sometimes in her eyes, turn into something else, something he's ashamed to have drawn but can't bring himself to destroy.

Something he locks in a box under his bed and tries to desperately forget is there, but never can banish from his thoughts.

The first drawing he does starts life as a sketch of her stretching to do maintenance on the armor, and sure, maybe he's unhealthily riveted by the narrow band of pale skin that flashes teasingly him from between the waist of her snug jeans and the hem of her shirt as it lifts and falls with her movements, but it wasn't his intention to do anything but a tasteful sketch that attempts to capture Toni's energy on paper.

But then she spills her coffee down her front and, cursing and swearing in six languages (as well as apparently forgetting he's sitting in the corner out of the way) stomps to a bank of upright lockers and hauls her shirt over her head.

She's got her back to him the whole time, but something happens to his brain at first sight of that creamy expanse of back, the curve of her hip snug in denim and the hollow just above her ass, and she's back at the armor in a fresh shirt with fresh coffee before he can get moisture back into his mouth.

And the Toni on his sketchpad isn't stretching up to her armor anymore. She's got her hands in her hair, grinning coquettishly over her shoulder at him, above her bare back.

He slams his sketchbook shut instantly, and feels his face go hot and flushed when he hears Toni ask, “Everything okay over there, Cap?”

“Fine!” he yelps, and yanks his pencils and erasers back into his case, shoving everything in with far less care than he usually employs with his most treasured belongings, and stands hurriedly enough that the stool on which he’d been sitting topples over with a clattering crash. “I forgot,” he says in a rush and doing his best to avoid eye contact with her as he edges towards the door. “I have training with Natasha. You know how she is when someone’s late to an appointment with her.”

“If you’re sure everything’s okay,” Toni says doubtfully, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her eyebrows draw together in a frown of concern. 

“Fine, fine,” he says, and all but runs towards the door. “Sorry!” he calls over his shoulder, and makes the elevator at the end of the hall in less than two seconds. He doesn’t dare relax until he’s in his room and has the door locked behind him, and only then does he open his sketchbook again with shaking hands, smoothing his fingers over the damning page. 

He should rip it out, tear it to shreds, run it through one of Toni’s industrial paper shredders and burn the confetti to ash, erase any evidence this …  _ perversion  _ ever existed. 

Instead, he goes on his knees beside his bed, pulls out his foot locker and carefully tears the page from the spiral binding of his sketchbook, then inserts it between the pages of his family Bible (because his sins really have no bounds), and locks the foot locker up again. 

And because this is the filthiest he’s ever felt, he takes a shower immediately after. He keeps the water Arctic cold, a punishing chill that does absolutely  _ nothing  _ to quell the heat racing through his veins, and with the hopelessness of the self-aware damned, wraps his hand around his traitorous erection and comes hard in a couple of desperate jerks, picturing Toni’s bare back and gorgeous smile and hating himself for it the whole time. 


	2. The Devil Wears Purple

For days, he lives with a sense of dread chewing his guts, a nauseating sense of guilt that rears up and makes him wish the world would swallow him up every time he looks at Toni.

God, if she knew…

It occurs to him somewhere around the third day, when he's dodged her at least twenty times and watched the bewildered hurt build in her slowly shuttering-off expression, that maybe she wouldn't mind if she knew. It's a strange thought, and one he probably wouldn't have considered had it not occurred to him while listening to Toni and Clint trying to one-up each other with tales of their sexual escapades with increasing volumes of laughter and good-natured mockery.

“Bitch please,” Toni says loftily, waving a hand dismissively over her coffee as Clint finishes up his story about an obsessive ex-girlfriend who routinely jumped him from tree branches. “Let me tell you about the troll with the camera I attracted my second year at MIT. If there was a  _ blade of grass  _ near me, this fucker could hide behind it.”

Steve listens with half an ear as he doodles on a notepad, sipping from his mug and growing ever so faintly horrified by the sheer audacity of Toni's former stalker. A distant, Cro-Magnon part of his brain is puffing out its chest, stridently demanding he seek this creep out immediately and do something painful and permanent, but he shoves the impulse aside. He has no right to devolve into such behaviour and besides, Toni is likely to have been far more creative and far more destructive than he could possibly be.

He's talked to Rhodes. She's always preferred to do her own punching.

But still, her outrage makes him think. She's still clearly furious, no matter how much amusement she tells the story with. But the photos the jerk took of her don't seem to be her sticking point, just the behaviour the jerk took towards her.

So maybe… maybe he doesn't need to eat himself alive with guilt over his one sketch of her. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if she somehow found out. And for the first time since that disastrous afternoon in her workshop, he can feel his shoulders unbunching and releasing their tension, as he sketches from memory Toni in flight in blue ink.

“And these photos are online?” Clint rubs his hands together gleefully. “Toni, I'm sorry if this makes our relationship weird… well,  _ weirder _ , but I'm firing up Google tonight.”

Toni snorts and drains her coffee. “Honestly, the tabloids have far more explicit photos of me from my indiscretions during my late teens. Ooh, and that sex tape that ended up on one of the porn sites  a a few years ago. It shows me coming and going, if you catch my drift.”

Steve chokes, and there's a dull rushing in his ears, like blood thundering at a rate sure to alarm any cardiologist worth their salt. He's steered clear of the more questionable internet sites, more or less, because he might not be a blushing virgin (thank you, Madeleine from France all those years ago), but the two or three times he's indulged his curiosity, he's been distinctly uncomfortable, because dammit, there are things that should be sacred between two consenting adults and not for mass market entertainment.

But  _ Toni's on one of those sites _ , and suddenly that's all he can think about. 

There's a distant  _ snap,  _ then his fingers are wet, and the acrid stink of cheap ink sears his nose with enough astringency to abruptly unfog his head. 

He blinks. Toni and Clint are staring at him with identical expressions of concern and interest, and he clears his throat awkwardly as he pries his ink-smeared fingers away from the shattered remains of the pen. 

“Everything okay, Steve?” Toni asks, in the same tone of slow worry she used the other day. 

“Fine,” he says, and can't look at either one of them as he fruitlessly tries to wipe the worst of the spill off his hands before giving up entirely and standing up to move to the sink. “I really need to stop buying those Bics, I guess.”

“If you say so,” Toni says uncertainly.

He keeps his back to her when he hears her standing up, because he doesn't want her to see his blood-red face or the raging erection he's desperately hiding against the sink's undercabinet. He focuses the entirety of his attention on scrubbing the ink from his skin. For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of the nail brush scraping briskly over his hands, and then Toni heaves a heavy sigh.

“I've got liquid pumice in the shop,” she says, and his pulse picks up its breakneck tempo another few notches because it sounds like she's  _ right _ behind him. “It’ll take that crap off no problem.”

“I'm good,” he lies through his teeth and bends his head to stare at his soapy hands like what he's doing is vital to the defeat of HYDRA. 

“Your loss,” she says in something that's almost her normal cheery tone, but there's a hint of hurt underneath it, and he squeezes his eyes shut because he's the world's biggest heel for putting it in her voice. 

“On second thought,” he says, and curses himself for entirely different reasons now, “I'm not so married to my art that I need stained fingertips. I'll come by in a bit.”

“Looking forward to it,” and he's so  _ fucked  _ because there's precious little he won't do to hear the warmth and happiness turning her voice to sultry smoke. “Kinda missed you over in the corner, Cap. It's nice having you there.”

She leaves and he hangs his head, breathing like he just ran a marathon or ten, sagging over the sink in relief and self-recrimination. He's not going to hell. He's there already. And worse, he loves the flames that keep licking at skin.

“You've got it really fucking bad, don't you?” Clint says conversationally from just beside his elbow, and Steve jumps out of his skin because he forgot Clint was there at all. He takes a swing out of pure rabbit reflex, and thank God Clint just ducks under his wild swipe, because he doesn't want to have to explain why he thought it was a good idea to embed their resident archer in the drywall.

“Jumpy much?” Clint says with a smirk, and leans over Steve's forearm to rinse his cup out before slotting it into the dishwasher. “Relax. And breathe, for fuck’s sake. You're not supposed to have asthma anymore.”

“Why,” Steve says plaintively, when he has enough oxygen to form sounds again, “are you still here?”

“A question I ask myself on a regular basis. Mostly, what I come up with is that Toni has awesome toys and she's just as weird as I am, so I'm more or less always entertained.” Clint leans back against the countertop, folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head to the side. “And it's just getting more entertaining by the minute. How long have you had the hots for her? Chitauri? Helicarrier? Shiny red and gold armor and a smart mouth telling you where to get off? Not that I  _ need _ to know, mind. I just really want to know.”

This is definitely hell, and he may not want to label Toni as a gift of Lucifer, but he has  _ no problem  _ with viewing Clint as a demonic tormentor. All he's missing is a pitchfork and a pair of imp horns. "Is it that obvious?"   
  
Clint's eyes drop to the vicinity of Steve's crotch for a second, and his smirk widens. "Not the word I'd use," he says, returning his gaze to Steve's face. "But sure. It'll do the job." The smirk fades a little, still present but less inclined to make Steve want to reach out and smack it off his face. “Toni's a class act, you know. But she's got a lifetime subscription to a whole library of issues. You might wanna pull up your spangly Captain America underroos and say something to her before someone else comes along and sweeps her off her killer heels.”

Something in his tone makes all of Steve's hackles rise and he bristles, fists clenching at his side. “Like you?” he says, and can't keep the snarl out of his voice.

Clint stares at him for a moment, and then bursts into highly amused laughter. “If I thought I had half a Capsicle's chance in hell, I'd go for it, but she's not into my kind of freaky at all.” He pauses and gives Steve a significant look. “But I have zero problem with setting her up with any of my equally freaky circus buddies, because I love that woman like I imagine I'd love a third or fourth cousin by marriage, if I had any.”

That's bizarre enough to throw Steve off momentarily, and he blinks furiously, trying to parse it. “Third or fourth cousin?”

“By marriage.” Clint nods.”You know, family, but not by blood and not close enough to make it weird if we ever did decide to fuck.”

Steve closes his eyes, presses his fingertips into either side of the bridge of his nose, and counts to ten in his head. “Do you have a point, Barton?”

“I do, actually. I've already made it. That point was don't be a dumbass and talk to her, the sooner the better.” His head tilts again. “Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, do yourself a favor and do _not_ Google Toni's sex tape. I'm pretty sure watching her come is something you want to experience first-hand, not in shitty shakycam.”

“Go away, Barton,” Steve says tiredly, and presses his fingers against his sinuses harder. It helps to keep him from strangling Clint with his bare hands. “Just go away.”

“You have ink on your nose,” Clint says helpfully, and cackles as he dodges Steve's half-hearted, exasperated grab towards him. “Talk to her!”

He sighs and stares into the sink for a moment longer. Yep. Definitely hell. And he knows without a shred of doubt he deserves to be here. With another sigh, he dries his hands on the dish towel and turns to march into his personal den of metal- and coffee-scented torment.


	3. Portrait of the Artist Pining From Afar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update. :) Another coming soon.

“Steve, I need you.”

Steve sighs inwardly and the bottom of his stomach drops as he turns around, because those four words have a ridiculous amount of power over him when Toni says them in any tone of voice, but the slightly urgent notes, pitched low and serious, make him mentally revise his planned schedule of activities for the foreseeable future. It doesn’t matter what she needs. It doesn’t matter whether it’s in his power to get her what she needs or not. He’ll make it happen, no matter what it takes. 

“Sure Toni,” he says easily, like he hasn’t just decided to discard weeks worth of planning for a backpacking trip in the Adirondacks, like his SHIELD training seminar for new agents hasn’t just hit the trash can. He dries his hands carefully as the water in the sink swirls and gargles down the drain behind him, and heroically manages to not reach out to stroke the worried, frazzled lines between her eyebrows into calmness again. “What can I help you with?”

She looks tired. She always does, because she doesn't sleep enough and she wouldn't know a restful sleep if one pinned her to a mattress — never mind what he thinks about her being pinned to a mattress, god he's a sad person — but now she looks almost haggard. “I did something stupid,” she grumps, and throws herself on a stool _.  _ She puts her head in her hands and buries her fingers in her hair, hiding her face against her forearms. “I agreed to a charity thing, but apparently what I agreed to isn’t what they heard me agree to, and now I’m stuck having promised something I for the life of me do not know I can deliver.”

He revises his estimate of the last time she slept by tacking on two days; she only ever hits that frantic, panicked tone when she’s past what’s normal for even her to run on. He frowns and settles onto the stool next to her, and isn’t thinking at all when he reaches out and presses his palm against her back in comfort and support. He only realizes what he’s doing when his train of thought breaks from marveling over how much of the space between her shoulder blades his broad hand covers when she leans into his touch, heavy and trusting. He swallows hard, tries desperately to work moisture back into his mouth (his most common ailment around Toni, he’s found), and clears his throat. “I’m sure we can work it out, Toni. What’s the problem?”

Her sigh is long, drawn-out, probably a bit more melodramatic than it rightly should be, but Steve’s always found that more endearing than annoying. She stretches her hands along the countertop, glares at them for a moment, then abruptly topples sideways until she smacks into his chest, and her head comes to a stop below his chin. 

His nose abruptly fills with the scent of her shampoo, and he desperately hopes she doesn’t notice that his heart rate has just as abruptly tripled in speed. 

“It’s a fundraiser for the VA,” she mumbles into his throat, and her next sigh seems to deflate her, because it certainly feels like all her weight is resting against him, sharp and searing, the warmth of her body a brand he can feel down to his bones. “I don’t know if I misunderstood the project, or … no, it was probably me. I don’t pay attention to things like that. I think I can throw money at any problem until it solves itself, but it’s not gonna work this time, and I don’t just want to whip out my checkbook and write numbers until people stop complaining. I don’t want to be that person anymore and…”

She seems inclined to go on for awhile, the rambling self-recriminations, and Steve’s heard enough of that to do him another 70 years in an iceberg. He hugs her gently, careful that it doesn’t hurt her with her weird, cat-spined arch against him, and rubs the hand still splayed against her back in small, light circles until she babbles to a close. “Why don’t you start at the beginning,” he says, helps her move back when she makes some effort to straighten and look him in the eye, and smiles at her, steadfastly ignoring the storm of fluttering butterflies in his stomach at how close and vulnerable she looks. “What project did you think you were agreeing to do?”

“Funding a calendar,” she mumbles, and rubs her eyes wearily with the heels of both palms. “You know, like one of those firefighter calendars Natasha keeps in her locker. Paying for a photographer and a workspace and all that jazz. Maybe helping the selection committee narrow down a list of candidates. I had my heart set on choosing Mr. or Ms. May. Birthday month and all.”

He does his damnedest to not feel a stab of jealousy at the notion of her drooling over calendar models, but in the end, supersoldier or not, he’s only human. “And what did they think you were agreeing to?”

“An Avengers pinup calendar!” she says in exasperation, throwing her hands up and narrowly missing smacking him in the nose with her fingers. “Despite my insistence that there’s only six of us, seven if you count Big Green and Bruciebear as separate Avengers which, let’s face it, they totally  _ are  _ half the time, that’s still a lot of missing months! And I didn’t agree to exploit any of you in the bargain?” Her head tilts then. “Even if Clint’d be all over it, the attention whore, and Natasha’d find it amusing, and Thor would just give one of those big goofy space Labradoodle grins and say ‘ho there, a noble cause to benefit Midgard’s glorious warriors, sign me up, Lady Stark’, there’s still you and Bruce and five missing months! I don’t know what to do, Steve. It’s such a stupid problem to have to figure out, I know, because we fight fucking  _ gods  _ and alien ant farms that invade through a single tunnel in the sky, and I’m the seventh smartest person on this fucking planet, but I  _ don’t know what to do.” _

She looks so miserable and worried, so tired and lost, Steve impulsively reaches out and pulls her back into his chest, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair. She sighs and sags into him again, trusting and warm, and slips her arms around his ribs to return the embrace. Just for a moment, his breath seizes in his lungs, and his heart does some complicated acrobatic thing that probably isn't but just might be cardiac arrest. 

“The first thing you need to do,” he says firmly, pulling out his very best Captain America impression because he knows first hand how well Toni listens to it, “is get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” she mumbles, and tucks in closer to his throat. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice him swallowing hard as she does so. “Too much to do.”

“Let me see what  _ I _ can do,” he says softly, and resumes running his fingertips lightly through her hair when she nudges his hand with the top of her head. “On the condition you  _ sleep _ .”

He doesn’t get an answer, and for a minute he thinks it’s because Toni’s trying to dredge up a rejoinder from the depths of her sleep-deprived brain. But the moment stretches far longer than it should take, and her breathing’s hit a deep, slow regular rhythm. He smiles fondly, shakes his head, and carefully scoops her off the stool and into his arms. 

“Just so you know,” he says softly, and allows his cheek to rest against the top of her head as he carries her towards the elevator leading to her penthouse suite, “I’m taking this as your tacit agreement, so we have a deal.”

He has no idea what he's gotten himself into, only a vague idea of where to start, but he's kind of resigned himself to his habit of not taking a few seconds to think about things when it comes to Toni. He gets too lost in the depths of her eyes, or dazzled by her smile, or tangled up in the teasing tones or the scent of her hair to pay attention, and by that point it's far too late. He's promised things or agreed to help, and he's left floundering to catch up.    

JARVIS is kind enough to open doors for him to tuck Toni onto her own couch in her private rooms, and Steve pauses only long enough to find a soft, aged autumn-themed quilt -- handmade, her mother's, maybe? No, Ana Jarvis's, more likely, from everything she's told him about her surrogate parents -- and tuck it securely around her hips and shoulders. He smooths her hair away from her face again, then reluctantly drags himself towards the door, and leaves her to her much-needed sleep.    

He has some phone calls to make, and a project to plan, and since he doesn't have a clue about any of it, he better get started.


	4. After Monday and Tuesday, the Calendar Says WTF

With the same kind of single-minded, sleeve-uprolling determination that got him from the rejection pile to supersoldier and decorated war hero, he marches back to his room immediately after leaving Toni nestled into her couch with every intention to sit down and work this problem until it’s done. The problem with that notion is, he still doesn’t know what the hell he needs to do.

But he gives it his best try anyway, sitting resolutely at his desk with a scratch pad and a freshly-sharpened pencil, and starts as he always does when he doesn’t have a specific project in mind: he starts doodling. He doesn’t know if anything’s going to come of these sketches, but he always finds it easier to think with a sketchbook in his hands.

“JARVIS?” he says. “Do you have a moment?”

“Certainly, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS replies pleasantly and immediately, everywhere and nowhere at once. “What may I help you with?”

Steve ducks his head, trying not to hunch his shoulders in discomfort. No matter how many times Toni explains it, or how many times Natasha mocks him for it, it’s disconcertingly like speaking to a ghost, a little too much for his liking. “I was wondering if you had any record of the project I told Toni I’d help her with,” he says awkwardly, and chooses to focus on his aimless linework in order to avoid searching the ceiling for the hidden speakers. “I didn’t get many details out of her before she fell asleep, and I don’t really know where to start.”

He doesn’t even try to feel anything but resigned when his aimless sketches start turning into a portrait of Toni, frazzled and with her hands in her hair. He’s given up trying to stop drawing her.

“I do indeed, Captain,” JARVIS says, and a dark monitor across the room obligingly lights up to display a document, written with Toni’s neat, block-letter printing. “I’m afraid ma’am made it about as far as you have before she became overwhelmed and sought your assistance.”

 _CALL PEPPER_ is all it says, and Steve smiles ruefully. No help there. Or maybe it’s exactly the help he needs. “Well,” he says, carefully tearing the sketch of frazzled Toni out of his sketchbook and laying it aside to smooth his hand over a fresh sheet. “I can’t think of anything better to try, so let’s do what the lady says, JARVIS, and call Pepper.”

“Right away, Captain,” JARVIS replies, and the document is replaced by the SI standard phone interface. “Trying her office and personal cellular device now.”

\-----

Calling Pepper was a good idea, because once she finishes expressing her utter delight and pleased surprise at his foresight in calling her, she tells him to check his email and there he finds a wealth of information on the project, notably what exactly they expect for each calendar month. Helpfully included in the information he’s amazed she compiled in a short, five-minute conversation is a list of everyone’s birthdays.

He’s never realized before how none of them share the same birth month. Right now, he’s pretty grateful for that. It makes this job easier and a lot more straightforward than he gleaned from what Toni said.

It’s one of the most endearing quirks he loves about Toni. Complex problems that have his head spinning and the panic rising, she takes in stride, completely confident and in control. Simple stuff baffles her, throws her off, sends her into a panic spiral when she realizes she doesn’t have a handle on it. It’s yet another reason he thinks they’d be good together, if only he could unglue his tongue from the top of his mouth to say something to her, like Clint keeps nagging him to do.

He sighs and props his chin on his hand, going down the list of who’d be best suited for what and trying to figure out how to fill the holes left by the fact that there are only six Avengers -- seven, if he counts the Hulk, like Toni suggested -- but he thinks he might have some pull with a couple of SHIELD agents he can ask to join the project.

Sharon, he thinks, has a birthday in August, which is one of the missing months, and there’s Sam, maybe. It’s been awhile since they’ve talked, but on Steve’s part at least, Sam is more than just the therapist Fury assigned to talk to him after he woke up in the future. He doesn’t know when Sam’s birthday might be, but it’s worth asking.

He covers July. Toni’s birthday is in May. Clint’s is January. Bruce, if Steve can talk him into it, covers December. How Pepper knows Natasha’s birthday is in November, he’s a little afraid to ask, because even her official SHIELD file doesn’t list that information. Pepper slipped her own name onto the list to cover February, with a sidebar stating it’s to keep Clint from complaining that, as an archer, he should be Cupid. And she helpfully points out that James Rhodes, Toni’s best friend who he still has to officially meet face to face, has a birthday coming up in October.

After a while of staring at the list and doing his best not to choke up, he pencils Bucky’s name beside March. There's no other name that could go there for him. He thinks Toni isn’t going to mind, can already see her face fill with compassion, feel her hand smooth along his shoulders in sympathy. It’s another thing he loves about her.

He doesn’t know where to put Thor or the Hulk, but asking never hurts anyway. He manages to send individual emails before the grief that constantly hovers in the background of his thoughts whenever Bucky comes to mind swells behind his sinuses, and he needs to take a break to go murder a few heavy bags in the Tower’s supersoldier-rated gym before he shuts down entirely.

\------

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: nromanova@starkindustries.org

_Of course I’ll pose for November. I’m glad you asked. I’d hate having to kill whoever else you might have had in mind for that month. Toni doesn’t like it when I spill blood on her floors. And because I know you’re wondering, yes, I am kidding._

_Mostly._

_-Natasha_

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: thoreal@starkindustries.org

_This project sounds glorious. I wholeheartedly support endeavours meant to aid the wounded warriors of Midgard, and am delighted doing so also aids my shield brother and shield sister. That is you and Toni, to be specific. My first journey to Midgard, during which I was unfortunately killed only to be immediately restored to my full glory as the Thunderer, occurred in the month of June. If resurrection will count as a “birthday”, that month might best be suited for my participation._

_Else, I fear conjuring my true date of birth might take longer than you have to complete the project. Time passes somewhat differently for Asgardians, and I believe would one attempt to begin reconciling the differences between our calendars, one might go mad at the complexities._

_THOR ODINSSON_   
_HEIR OF ODIN BORSSON_   
_CROWN PRINCE OF ASGARD_ _  
AND HE WHO IS WORTH IT_

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: cfbarton@starkindustries.org

_February would be better, with the god of love making people all hot for each other and shit, but sure. I guess January will be fine. And if anyone asks, Natasha did not make me say that. I’m a mature adult who can compromise, even if I don’t get exactly what I want, and will not complain loudly to whoever will listen to my bullshit._

_Natasha didn’t make me say that either._

_clint_

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: bbanner@starkindustries.org

_I really don’t think this is a good idea, Steve, but JARVIS has just informed me of certain clauses in my contract that cover participating in team dynamic activities, and I think Pepper might sue me if I don’t at least try to live up to the spirit of my contract, rather than the letter._

_My birthday is in December, but the Hulk was… born, I guess, in April. I don’t talk to the Other Guy much, but … I have a feeling he wants to do it, because I can feelklfdajph03e84y hfs;l HULK SMASH APRIL COUNT HULK IN_

_Thank God Toni programmed the mail client to auto save draft emails. Tell Pepper I want to be paid with a new computer. Mine seems to have developed issues._

_Dr. Bruce Banner, PhD_ _  
_ _bbanner@starkindustries.org_

_Sent from my StarkPad 6_

_Sent from my StarkPhone_

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: rhodeybear@starkindustries.org

_Hey! Glad to hear from you. Just to let you know, when it comes to my inclusion in things like this, Captain, Toni finds a way to drag me in one way or another. So for future projects, just count me as a “yes”. Saying no just tends to delay the inevitable._

_Rhodey_

_PS: Are you and Toni seeing each other? I kinda got the gist from the rumour mill that there might be something between the two of you, and Toni’s being cagey as all hell when I ask her directly. If so, just let me know so I can schedule the customary shovel talk because Captain America or not, dude, hurt my girl and I’ll bury your ass somewhere they’ll never think to look for you._

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: carters13@shield.gov

_Bold move, sending something like this to my work address. Never know if Fury or Coulson are reading all my emails. (Phil, it’s rude. Director, there’s no point in telling you it’s rude, but it’s really rude.)_

_Of course I’m in! I don’t know if I ever told you, but Toni Stark is actually my cousin. Not by blood or anything, but Aunt Peg practically adopted her after her mother died, so we spent a lot of time together. Haven’t recently, but this is a good opportunity to catch up with you and Toni at the same time._

_Oh my god, I just had a thought: you should totally ask Toni out! I don’t know if she’s single or not currently, but you two would be actually pretty perfect for each other! We’ll talk more when we can sit down over coffee or something, but just think on it, okay?_

_Lots of love,_

_Sharon_

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: wilsons38@shield.gov

_Hey man,_

_I’m a bit surprised to get your email, but it’s good to hear from you again. Never thought you’d get around to getting back in touch with an invitation to come see your secret base and all your new friends, but hell, Stark’s got all the best goodies and maybe I can sweet-talk her into taking a look at my designs. I don't plan on being at SHIELD forever, and Stark Industries has some of the best benefits packages out there for private sector work. Put in a good word for me?_

_My birthday’s in September, so I guess I’m game if you still need someone for that month. But I’m really curious here, Steve. If this is supposed to be some sort of roundabout invitation to come try out for the Avengers, a) you’re not supposed to know about the Falcon program and b) I’d really like some clarification here, because jumping to conclusions isn’t really my thing._

_Coffee later the week? Catch up? How’s your love life, these days? Still monking it up in that crappy apartment SHIELD gave you? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, of course, but I thought we were getting to be friends, so I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything. You know that, right?_

_See you soon._

_Sam_

To: sgrogers@starkindustries.org  
From: nastark@starkindustries.org

_Absolutely. Consider May covered. But only if you’re sure. - TS_

**oOoOoOo**

Steve tells himself it’s in deference to Toni’s busy schedule that he leaves her session open, but he knows he’s lying and he hates himself just a little for it. Maybe he should have had Pepper book the appointments for him, but Toni’s depending on him to do this right, and the last thing he wants to do is half-ass it by handing it off to someone else when it gets a little hard.

Yeah, okay, he’s lying through his teeth to himself, and that’s more than a little sad. But three emails from people who ostensibly have little to no communication with each other asking about his dating situation and specifically mentioning Toni have left him wholly rattled and off-balance.

Is he that transparent?

If he’s that transparent, why hasn’t Toni noticed?

Has Toni actually noticed, but is just trying to spare his feelings?

Which of those choices is actually the worst of the bunch?

“Stop thinking,” Natasha tells him, abruptly slamming his attention back to the here-and-now, and he blinks at her, tries not to turn beet red as he looks back down at the sketchbook in his lap and knows the tips of his ears are burning scarlet as he sketches in her artful, high-heeled pose on the barstool in the middle of the room.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, and concentrates on making sure the aristocratic tilt of her head is at the right angle on paper.

“Good thing my ego doesn’t ride on making sure I have your undivided focus, Rogers,” she says primly, and he can _hear_ the smirk in her voice, even if a quick glance up doesn’t see it on her face. “I don’t put on the slinky black dress for just anyone, you know.”

“You look stunning,” he says honestly, eyes the way the folds fall around her legs and bends to carefully outline them on his page. “I’m just a little distracted.”

“You’re distracted because you’re an idiot.” Natasha shakes her head, and her curls bounce around her face at the motion. “There’s a simple solution to all your problems, Steve. Just ask her out to dinner.”

The pencil creaks as his fingers tighten on it, and with effort, he relaxes his grip. He’s broken too many pencils lately, and he likes this one. “Thank you for your advice,” he says as neutrally as he can, but winces a little at how sharp it sounds to his own ears.

“I’m just trying to help, Steve,” Natasha replies after a moment, in a gentle tone he’s rarely ever heard her use.

He sighs, squeezes his eyes closed briefly, and forces his shoulders to relax. “I’m sorry, Nat,” he says with another heavy sigh. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Yes you did,” Nat replies, amused. “But it’s fine, Steve. I don’t have feelings you can hurt. It’s making you uncomfortable, frustrated and edgy, so I’ll drop it. You already know what you have to do. We’re all just hoping you’ll get around to doing it.” She shakes her hair back out of her face and resumes her pose on the stool.

The rest of the session passes in blessed silence, even though Steve can feel the weight of her knowing gaze the entire time no matter how attentively he stares at the pages on his lap.

**oOoOoOo**

An hour after Natasha leaves, he desperately wants her back, because as bad as her silent judgment was, Clint’s refusal to shut up is ten times worse. Steve supposes he should have known it was going to be one of the more aggravating periods of his day when Clint begins his appointment by sprawling in what Steve can only assume is supposed to be a seductive pose. He just can’t decide if it looks more like someone with no idea of what yoga is attempting downward dog, or a girl with no idea of what to do with her hands posing for her first modeling shoot.

“It helps,” Steve says with great patience, once again attempting to not break his pencil, “if you sit still.”

“When have you ever known me to sit still, Cap?” Clint retorts, but gives up on the ridiculous position and, Steve hopes, whatever he’d meant by _draw me like one of your French girls._ With some coaxing from Steve, he finds a more natural stretch, propped on his elbow and several very stuffed pillows, and smirks up with his most aggravating smile. “Couldn’t help but notice you haven’t talked to Toni yet.”

“I talk to Toni all the time,” Steve replies evenly, and does his best to not dig the pencil into the paper as he sketches a broad-stroke, rough outline of Clint’s pose when he sees Clint’s smirk widen and his mouth open. “And yes, I know what you meant, Barton, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I can respect that,” Clint says, rolls onto his stomach and props his chin in both hands. Steve swears under his breath and reaches for the eraser to fix the lines for the new position. “I’m probably not going to listen, but I can definitely respect that you don’t want to talk about it. Thing is,” he continues, crossing his ankles in the air and ruining Steve’s attempt before he can even finish erasing the first, “I also respect Toni. I’m starting to wonder if you do.”

He wonders if the vein he can feel throbbing in his temple is visible. “I respect Toni,” he says, this time through gritted teeth.

“Do you?” Clint readjusts his hands, and Steve reaches for the eraser again, counting to ten in his head as he does. “You’re clearly stupid for her. I’m pretty sure she’s agreeable to the thought of you in a suit. Or out of the suit, for that matter. She’s single, you’re single. I just fail to see the problem when it’s painfully obvious--” He _knows_ he’s not misreading the pointed look Clint shoots at his groin, and the vein throbs just a little faster. “--you’d love to get her--”

_“Barton, if you value your life, shut up right now and stay still so you can leave as soon as possible.”_

In the silence that abruptly follows his involuntary outburst, Clint blinks owlishly at him, and guilt flushes through Steve, because if there’s one thing Clint rarely displays, it’s outright shock. “Sorry,” he mutters, goes back to drawing.

“Shit,” Clint says, more wonder than apology, and settles into place. “Jesus, Steve. Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you just wanted to bang her. I didn’t realize you were head over ass in love with her.”

 _Oh god._ “Please shut up,” Steve says again, and he realizes he’s begging, but anxiety’s churning up his stomach now, and in this moment, he doesn’t care. “Just leave it alone, Clint.”

“Sure,” Clint says, as easily as Natasha had, which is unsettling, and mimes zipping his lips. “No more said. If you need anything, though. Help. Advice. A copy of the _Kama Sutra_ …”

_“Barton.”_

“Right. Sorry.” The smirk is back, but it’s weirdly reassuring. “I’m done, I swear. Quiet as a church mouse. Cross my heart, if I didn’t think shifting position again wouldn’t pop that vein above your right eye.”

The relief he feels at that is pathetic and overwhelming, but he’ll take it. He’ll take it, and get through this appointment, and the worst will be over. Clint’s just trying to help, and he knows that, no matter how much Clint’s particular brand of help makes him want to punch Clint through a wall. By the time he’s ready to call the session to an end, he’s got enough on paper, just like with Natasha, to finish later. It’s not his best work, but it’ll do.

But then Clint stops at the door, smirks over his shoulder at him and says, “Good luck with Rhodey. He’s next on the list, and he’s not gonna listen when you yell at him to shut up and go away.”

The pencil breaks against the door as it closes behind Clint, and Steve stares glumly at the broken pieces, scratching off another one on the tally in his head, listening to Clint’s mocking laugh fade away down the hall.


End file.
